Henrietta had clutched the squirrel by the base of the tail, swinging him into the air. The mage had let out a high-pitching whining sound like he was crying in distress and pain. His little paws had scrabbled desperately.
My eyes had smarted with tears, as I’d raised my fist to bang on the window for the first time ever.
Let him go, let him go, let him…
The magical robins had fluttered around the roof, yeeping in alarm. Then I’d felt a warm hand on my shoulder and had realized that I hadn’t been alone.
My hero had arrived. Unfortunately, Byron had also witnessed my tantrum.
I’d primly settled back onto the window seat, opening the book at a random page…upside down.
Did I have time to cast a Reading Upside Down Spell?
Bryon had snorted. “Good try, Magenta.” He’d plucked the book from my hand and tossed it onto the floor. His green suit had been open at the neck to reveal his peacock amulet, which he’d stroked. I could tell that had meant he was plotting something. His mouth had been tight, as he’d stared out of the window. “The boy down there is an orphan mage called Robin.” His elegant fingers had brushed the amulet again. “You’re lonely up here, aren’t you?”
I’d warily nodded.
“What if that boy was allowed into the Bird Turret to play with you?” Bryon had straightened, clicking his smart heels together as if on parade.
My magic had burst from me, sparking like pink fire.
The excitement of the forbidden, mixed in with the chance to cuddle a squirrel (and rescue a Rebel from Henrietta), had me bouncing up and down on my seat.
The lack of decorum in becoming a bouncing witch would’ve horrified mother. I’d bounced even harder.
Bryon had raised his finger in warning. “I hate to ask it of you, but we must keep this a secret from mama, or I shall suffer.”
Well, that was how to stop a witch bouncing.
My grin had slipped but it hadn’t faded. “Papa, I can keep a secret. I want the mage.”
Byron’s icy eyes had flashed, as he’d snatched up my most loved doll and waved it in front of me. “Pan’s balls, Robin is not a toy. I don’t suggest bringing him here, so that you can practice witch cruelty or coo over him like he’s no more than this doll.” My lip trembled. Byron had never spoken to me with such harshness before. What had I done? Bryon’s expression softened, as he dropped the doll and pulled me into a hug, stroking my hair. “Calm, Magenta,” he’d murmured. I’d sighed, safe in his arms. “Hush, now, there’s no need for tears. But believe me, in here Robin shall be your equal. You’ll share with him, and he’ll choose what you play. I know that’s hard to understand with what mama preaches, but let me show you a different way.”
I’d nodded, nestling closer to his warmth. He’d pushed me back so that his gaze could meet mine.
“If you mistreat him, then you lose this chance,” his voice had been steely. I’d quivered, tightening my arms around his waist because it’d felt like if I lost Robin, then I’d lose Byron as well. “Do you understand?”
“Robin will be my friend,” I’d whispered. “I’ll love him.”
And I had. I’d loved him to death.
Now, watching Fox as he finally threw himself next to me, underneath the flock of painted robins, I bit back a sob because if I didn’t win the contest today, then I’d have loved this mage to death as well.
One mistake is forgivable, but two deserves the Revenge Hex: 88 in the Principal’s Motto Book.
I’d hex myself if I let Fox down today.
When Lysander’s haughty gaze met mine across the circle, and he pointed the tip of his wing at me like a golden sword, I rather thought that the fae intended to hex me himself. After what Sleipnir had shown me about the Membership, I now understood that the Rebel Cup meant as much to the princes in their own way as it did to me. Yet whatever they thought that they were proving through winning, it could never be worth Fox’s life.
If I had to witch slap a few princes to prove that point, then so be it.
I inclined my head to Lysander (because manners cost nothing), and Lysander gaped at me. With a snarl, Lysander wrapped his wing around Willoughby instead, manhandling him to sit straighter in the way that I hated. Willoughby’s gaze appeared hazy again like he was lost somewhere inside his own mind again.
Were all elves so inscrutable or only their beautiful princes?
At the sudden flutter of feathers, I turned to the window. When Ezekiel flew through with outstretched violet wings like the righteous angels that I’d dreamed about as a child (although none of them had such rippling muscles that warmth coiled through me, along with the desire to lick along his bronzed chest), Tchaikovsky’s “1812: Overture” burst out in all its martial glory.
Mage’s balls on a stick, were even angels musical in this day and age?
I jumped, and my magic exploded from me like twinkling fireworks. They lit the shadowy room, as the rousing music swelled with bells and cannon blasts.
Sleipnir collapsed on his back with laughter, as Mist blew his own aquamarine fire to add to the light show. “Hey, look, it’s the fourth of July! Do you want me to grab my guitar? I’d win this if it’s a music lesson.”
“Are you certain?” Willoughby arched his brow.
Sleipnir leaned forward. “Bring it on, pointy ears.”
Ezekiel landed in the middle of the circle, and the music shut off. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but this is Strategy class. The lesson of this music from the non-magical world is that even an Emperor can be brought down by nature. It tells the story of Napoleon marching on Russia and being defeated by their winter.” His gaze darted to me, and I flushed. You curse one academy with perpetual winter and suddenly you’re the bad guy… “Well, line up then.”
He fluttered his wings impatiently, but his smile was gentle.
Fox pulled me up. I was surprised that it was Willoughby, however, who slipped his hand around Bask’s waist and helped him to stand next to him. Bask looked unsteady. The touch deprivation must be hurting him now.
How much longer before the Duchess visited?
Lysander stood next to them, and his back was so straight that I thought it wise to check whether there was a stick stuck up his behind. When I leaned to check out his unfairly tight buns, Sleipnir frowned, catching my eye. Then he waggled his eyebrows at me in amusement.
I raised a haughty eyebrow, although I allowed Mist to settle on my shoulder with a stroke of his mane because I was decidedly gracious like that.
Lysander glared at me, outraged. Perhaps he was auditioning for the part of Napoleon.
Ezekiel marched down the line, as if he was an officer inspecting our eccentric parade. He stopped at Sleipnir, who slouched like he was at a punk concert. Ezekiel did up Sleipnir’s tie with sharp, efficient motions.
Sweet Hecate, that was the first time that I’d seen Sleipnir smartened up, and he looked hot in a tie. What would he look like in a suit?
I sighed. A witch could dream, surely?
I was already in my evening dress, and my own corset bit into my bosoms like they were trying to make them stand up for inspection. They were impressive. I pushed out my chest further.
“I did explain to you last time that you were an army?” Ezekiel sounded troubled. “That it’s my job to train you as assassins to be sent on—”